Commonplace Becomes Precious

It's Monday. I leave Friday. Today I went to school and took the hardest of the art history finals. It was alright, but I'm glad to be done with it. It was a tense morning with Line B of the RER, which is a commuter train (faster than the Metro) I take south. It has been the most problematic of all the lines the whole time I've been here. There was a strike on the line (or something like that) for about a week. I never did understand how a strike could just take out one line. So I don't know. Anyway, when it's not working and I have to get to school, it takes me an extra twenty to thirty minutes, depending on whether I know ahead of time.

This morning I didn't know ahead of time. I was heading south to take my final and I boarded the RER. I wasn't running late, but I didn't have any excess time, either. The train just sat there and ... sat there ... and then there was an announcement and I thought it said we'd be leaving in a few minutes, but then we sat some more... and clock was ticking. Outside on the information screen, it said something about "une problème matériel," which I think means a problem with the equipment. At that point I split and walked all the way to the other side of Gare Nord to catch the regular Metro (Line 4) south. I got to class about five minutes late after a lot of very fast walking. No coffee—I had planned on having time to have a café crème at school where they are good and also cheap. No such luck. I took my final sans caffeine.

Coming home, I found myself reduced to taking pictures of the common place. Like the guy who stands at the top of the stairs at the Pigalle Metro and roasts chestnuts. He's there everyday. I see him every time I ride the Metro. These are the kind of pictures I have not been taking because it seems rude. It makes me feel like a tourist. Now that I'm so close to leaving my nostalgia is overriding my resistance. The commonplace has become precious.

The chestnut seller just smiled at me when I took my pictures. I've never spoken to him. But maybe he recognizes the people like myself who use the Pigalle Metro on a daily basis. I mean, this is the Metro stop that I use whenever I go anywhere. It has an east/west line that goes toward Gare Nord and the RER that tripped me up this morning, and it has a North/South line that takes me up into Montmatre or down the east side of Paris where, for example, I transfer to get to the Louvre. One thing I feel pretty familiar with at this point is the Metro.

I'm still trying to build up my nerve to take pictures on the Metro. It does seem to be the height of touristy behavior, almost an invasion unless I happen to see musicians. There haven't been as many lately. I think it's cause it's winter and there aren't as many tourists. So. I walked home, and on the way, stopped to pick up a few things at my neighborhood supermarket.

I sneaked my camera out and snapped one or two pictures of the most mundane of the mundane—my grocery store. This woman is using the little scales that everyone uses to weigh their vegetables and fruit before paying. If you look at the picture closely, you'll see that the basket is sitting on a little wheeled contraption. You grab a basket and one of these wheelly deals and put them together yourself. They're pretty hard to steer, but they're small and so are most of the grocery stores. This is one of the larger stores, though I've read that there are some super big ones out near and in the suburbs.

Back in the beginning I tried to buy my vegetables without using the scales. It was my first time in a grocery store and I hadn't noticed how things were done. It was not at this store or at a store this big. The clerk, as I reported, was unimpressed. It was one of those, "oh wow, Paris is confusing" days. I think about how many things I've learned to take for granted. I can almost always get doors to work these days and my first day out, I couldn't figure out to push the door downstairs. I panicked because it didn't pull open. Jeeze.

So. I made it home in one piece my supplies in hand and yet again, as I do every time I come home, I tucked myself in to my tiny elevator and, ignoring the duck tapped numbers, pushed number 3 so the elevator would take me to floor 5. I no longer pray every time I get in the elevator, but I still thank the critter most of the time as I exit. Superstition, I suppose, but I am extremely grateful that it has held up so well, duck tape and all.

All in all, I'm in a much better mood this evening than I was this morning. I'm really glad to be done with the test I took today, and happy to realize that the one I have Wednesday is not going to be that hard. I'm pretty prepared. I'm finishing up a final paper—what I should be doing right now instead of this. But, while riding off to school this morning, I figured out the missing link—so I'm pretty sure I can finish it tonight. My plan is to spend my study time tomorrow in my favorite local café and, if I can squeeze it in, I'm still hoping to head up to Montmartre one last time and get portrait painted—and who knows, maybe I'll even buy a roasted chestnut.